


The Boy Who Would be King

by Annie46fic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Character Death, M/M, NSFW Art, Wincest Reverse Bang 2020 (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24943333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annie46fic/pseuds/Annie46fic
Summary: Without a soul Sam can be what he was always meant to be - King of Hell. He doesn't need Dean, or does he?  Dean only wants to save Sam, or does he actually want more?
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 174
Collections: Wincest Reverse Bang





	The Boy Who Would be King

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for this years Wincest Reverse Bang. I was lucky enough to use artwork created by the talented [sarasaurussex](https://sarasaurussex.tumblr.com). Please go and check out her work [here](https://sarasaurussex.tumblr.com/post/622073764087283712/the-boy-who-would-be-king-art) and give her all the kudos she deserves.

Sam stood beneath the flickering light and stared out into the night; behind him his brother, entrenched in domesticity. In front of him the world and all its delights - there was no doubt in his mind about what he wanted to do next. He was moving forward, moving upwards and he was going to do the job he was, literally, born to do.

****

Without a soul there was no reason that he shouldn’t become King of Hell, the boy king. There was no fucking reason why he shouldn’t lead a demon army, and take control. Lucifer was trapped in the cage now and Hell was in turmoil. The demons needed a leader and Sam, Sam would be that leader. Sam would step to the forefront and take what was rightfully his.

Crowley might be a problem, but he was just a trumped-up crossroads demon and easily brushed aside. Sam powers may have been dormant for some time but he knew just how to embrace them, and how to use them. Ruby had been right; he never needed the feather to fly. There was no demon blood this time, all he had to do was to turn on those switches in his brain and he would have everything. It wouldn’t be that simple of course, and people would die in the process but Sam was determined now. He no longer had his weak and mewling soul to hold him back and he knew just how to go about this logically, sensibly almost and he couldn’t wait to bring forth his army and take control of Hell.

****

He had Crowley’s head placed on a spike in his newly made throne room and it was a fitting reminder to anyone who questioned Sam’s authority. Sam could pull demons from their meat-suits and send them to the very depths of the fiery pit. Sam could control people with the power of his mind; if Sam told you to jump into a vat of acid then you jumped. It wasn’t rocket science, and it soon came to pass that whatever the Boy King wanted you to do, you did it. Demons flocked to his side, they fought each other to serve only him and would lie prostate at his feet and beg him to give them something, anything to do.

It was wonderful - not only did he walk the floors of Hell but he could also walk above on the streets of earth. He could drink the finest whiskey and move in the finest circles. World leaders were charmed by him, women lay down for him and gave them what he most desired. He could rid the President of his enemies and his rivals, and no one would question him. He could make greedy bankers richer, and he could make ugly people beautiful. Suited and booted (not that twee white crap, he had more taste than that) he glided through the world and all those who met him loved him, and wanted only to serve him.

****

Sometimes he would leave his throne and walk down the dark, hot corridors to where the cage stood. Hanging by chains it dominated the space in which it occupied. The chains and locks held fast, and there was no escape for any of its occupants, not now or ever.

If he stood close enough, or looked high enough he could observe his soul; that wasteful part of him that would have held him back from his true destiny. He could see it, flickering faintly, banging desperately against the bars. He could see it being tortured, used, and flayed by both Lucifer and Michael. He knew he would never want it back, and that he would never have it inside himself again. He needed no conscience; he needed no inside voice to tell him what was right or wrong, and he needed no weaknesses. He had everything in life (and death) that he desired. He never thought of his brother, never wondered what Dean was doing. As far as he was concerned, his brother was content surrounded as he was by his white picket fences and carefully trimmed lawns. Perhaps, if he had been more careful he wouldn’t have written Dean off so readily, but there was no need for him to dwell on the man. Sam no longer cared what Dean did, or with whom. Those long-ago days in the Impala, drinking beer and watching movies in Bobby’s stinking living room were gone and he had no need of them, or the memories they brought.

****

There might not have been an Apocalypse, but monsters still existed, and Dean realized very fast that he would never really be able to stop hunting them. He tried being with Lisa, he really, really did, but he couldn’t settle and there was something in the back of his brain that ate away at him until he stripped the tarpaulin off his baby and started back on the road. He had no conception of what he was doing or where he was going but something told him that the world still needed him and so, therefore, he wasn’t at all surprised when Castiel flickered into existence, standing behind him in his motel mirror, that familiar face serious yet concerned. Castiel’s blue eyes boring into his very soul; wings spread behind him visible for only a second, proof that he was more powerful than Dean had ever really thought and proof that Dean was wanted for far bigger things than barbecues and beer.

“It is your brother,” the angel intoned. “Heaven desires your assistance.”

“Sam’s in the cage.” Dean’s heart was thundering, and he felt sick. Castiel’s expression told him more than words ever could, and Dean’s anger rose high beyond his sickness. “Cas, what did you do?”

****

His brother was alive. Castiel had raised him from Hell to aid him in the fight against Raphael but something was missing, something precious. 

“His soul? You lifted him from Hell and left his soul behind?” Dean slumped hard into the motel chair and slugged back whiskey, his eyes watering with more than heat. “Why the fuck did you do that?”

“I did not know, Dean.” Castiel’s protests appeared genuine enough, but they did little to assuage Dean’s rage. “I only wanted to help.”

“Fucking wonderful way to help, Cas.” Dean stared out of the window and into the pitch- black sky, the stars and moon absent, all light gone. “So, where is he?”

“Your brother walks the earth, Dean, but he also rules Hell. Without his soul he has become the king he was destined to be. He has all his powers, and more, and he is causing chaos within the natural order of things. I need to be in heaven fighting for control, but I am forced to be here on earth trying to stop the evil that is your brother.”

Dean was silent; he stared at the angel and shook his head. There was a bottle of whiskey on the table and he took a slug. 

“You’d better tell me the full story,” was all he said.

****

“My lord . . . .”

The demon before him wore the meat-suit of a powerful, and confident lawyer but his expression was anything but. He virtually bent double before Sam and there was a palpable air of fear surrounding him. Sam rose from the throne and walked over; beneath his feet something cracked, and he felt flesh squashed beneath his boot. The demons who surrounded him cringed back like waves moving from the shore, and he stared at the quivering creature before him before wiping the remains of another off his shoe.

“What is it?”

“Your brother . . . he . . . we have reports that your brother is hunting again, and that he is hunting something specific. Someone specific.”

Sam grabbed the man by the chin and forced his face up so he could meet his eyes.

“And I should care why?”

“Because . . . ,” the demon visibly swallowed. “The reports are . . . he is hunting you.”

Sam let the man go and stepped back. He heard the hisses of the creatures who surrounded him, and he shook his head.

“Tell me more.”

“Hunters all over the country . . . all over the world are becoming aware. The rich, the powerful, and the cruel - we have a hard-headed businessman in the Whitehouse surrounded by yes men of his own choosing. Countries are at war over oil, over land, over money. Churches are half-empty and devil worship – in all its forms – is prevalent. There was bound to be some reaction.”

Sam stared at his followers and was astonished at how fearful they were. He narrowed his eyes, his mind whirling.

“We can handle your brother, my lord,” Another demon – this time in the meat-suit of a priest - spoke up confidently. “Let me take him down.”

Sam raised a hand. He lifted it slowly and the demon started to choke, fingers fumbling at his collar as he wriggled and shifted.

“No one lays a hand on my brother, do you understand? No one touches my brother, but me! I will _handle_ Dean Winchester – no one else!”

“Alone, my lord?” a few murmurs of descent and Sam exploded, demons crying out, blood splattering as meat-suits burst open and black smoke filled the air.

“Do not doubt me,” his anger was controlled, frightening. “I will see to my brother, and I will make sure our kingdom is safe. Stay away from him. Do not attempt to harm him, or I will make sure you pay for it . . . all of you.”

****

Sam sat on the balcony of his penthouse. It was one of many paid for by his grateful followers. He had a glass of whiskey in one hand and Ruby’s knife in the other. It was a reminder of his _other_ life; a life where Sam Winchester had a soul, a conscience, and had never followed his destiny. He had never done the logical thing.

Now he recalled that life. He thought about his brother, he thought about that strong body that had always fought beside him despite their differences. He thought about those bright green eyes, those capable hands and he found himself putting down the knife and putting his hand on himself, wrapping his fingers around a sudden and burgeoning erection. He had never considered his brother in this way before, never desired him but then his mewling soul would not had let him. Perhaps he had always lusted after Dean, but kept those things hidden deep down inside. He moaned then and tipped his head back, moving his hand faster and faster until he felt as if he would explode. Then he was coming, his orgasm almost painful. 

When he came back to himself, he had decided what to do, and it was a decision he hoped he did not live to regret. He wouldn’t kill his brother, instead he would make Dean one of his servants. He would turn Dean, and bring him into line. Alone Sam was powerful, but with his brother at his side he would be unbeatable and together they could rule Hell. Then Sam would have everything he never even knew he wanted. He would have Dean completely and utterly, and the world could be, and would be theirs.

****

Dean knew it wouldn’t be easy; trying to find his brother might be simple enough . . . he could summon and torture a demon, or get Castiel to track him down, but he needed to be alert. He needed to be ready. As he contacted his small network of hunters he felt confident that he would be.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so self-assured; perhaps he should have gone about the task differently, but it soon became apparent that Sam knew more about Dean and his movements than Dean knew about Sam. Hunters began to die in hideous ways, all of them tortured before being systematically ripped to pieces. Dean recalled, only too well, the rising of the witnesses, and what had happened to hunters back then. However, this time there was no mystery to who was killing them, and it hurt him deep inside to realize it. He knew what he had to do, but he couldn’t reconcile to doing it and as he made his way down to Sioux Falls, he couldn’t ignore the voice in his head any longer.

“I know it hurts to hear this, Dean,” Bobby Singer was never one to sugar coat things. “But Sam has to die. You’ve heard about his exploits, haven’t you boy? You know what he’s been doin’?”

“Yeah,” Dean replied and checked his rear-view mirror before he glanced at the seat next to him; it was painfully empty and the vision of his brother sitting there, laughing, teasing, nagging him about his music, was clear in his brain. “But maybe there’s a chance . . . .”

“He’s made himself the Boy King of Hell, Dean. His powers are infinite, and he controls both Hell and earth from what I’ve heard. He has some very powerful friends who are human, and almost as dangerous as the demons he rules over. Ignore that and you’re a bigger idjit than I thought you were.”

“He’s still my brother, Bobby,” it sounded pathetic and lame. Deep down Dean still had hopes, - hopes of maybe finding a spell to put Sam’s soul back in his body. He intended on contacting Cas and asking the angel if he could return again to the cage to retrieve it.

“He’s not your Sam, Dean,” Bobby’s voice was as miserable as Dean felt, and just as resigned. “I loved the kid as much as you did, loved him like a son, but he’s gone dark-side. He’s not gonna be able to return from that.”

“If I could get his soul . . . .”

“Dean, that’s nigh on impossible. Even if it was - what sort of state would it be in?”

“Bobby, listen. If he’s gotta die at least let him die human. We managed before, didn’t we?”

“If you mean the debacle with demon blood, then no Dean. He broke out, and he killed Lilith, and he started the fucking Apocalypse! Who knows what he’s capable of now.”

Dean was silent and then he sighed, swallowing down the lump in his throat was difficult enough.

“Then at least let me be the one to end him, Bobby. Don’t let any other hunter lay a hand on him if they find him, let it be me.”

“Not sure I can guarantee that, boy. I’ll try my best . . . just make sure you have the weapons in your armory to do it, okay? Just make sure you _can_ do it. I don’t wanna see you die, Dean. You understand me?”

“Yeah, Bobby. I understand.”

He clicked the cell off and threw it onto the seat beside him. Outside it was growing dark and the rising moon seemed to waver in front of his eyes. A single tear worked its way down his cheek, and he licked it away tasting salt. There was a long drive ahead, but he wished fervently that the journey would never end.

****

Bobby slammed down his phone and stared out of the window. He wished, not for the first time, that he’d kept his dogs; that he still had Rumsfeld, and the protection the huge rotty had given him. His tenth attempt to call Rufus had gone to voicemail and now his old friend’s voicemail was full. Bobby was aware that – despite his pleading – Rufus had gone in search of Sam Winchester, and that he’d promised to call as soon as he found him; that was five days ago and there had been no call, no contact, not even any rumors on the hunter network. Deep inside Bobby knew what that meant, but he didn’t want to go down that train of thought and all he could do was wait.

He heard rather than saw his door open; it made a huge creaking sound as it swung back, and the plaster of his walls fell loose with the slam that it made.

“Bobby,” the voice behind him was hauntingly familiar and oddly gentle. He forced himself not to turn, fumbling for his shotgun, for rock salt, and for his silver knife. “How nice to see you again.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Bobby had always been eloquent and sometimes words spoke louder than actions, maybe, just maybe, there was some humanity left in the boy. Maybe, just maybe, he could wing this and hold on till Dean got here.

“That’s what Rufus said,” perhaps he was imagining the regret in that voice, perhaps he had some hope. After all, he’d loved this man since he’d been a lost and confused little boy, almost an orphan abandoned by his dad and never really knowing his mom. “But I’m afraid I do. Can’t have Dean surrounded by friends and allies. I need him isolated. He doesn’t belong to you, or your hunter buddies. Dean belongs to me, and I’m here to claim him.”

Bobby turned and came face to face with cold hazel eyes. For a brief moment he thought it was like facing up to a shark and then – in a flash of movement – he was down on the ground and all of his thoughts flew out of his head replaced by only one emotion, strong and unfamiliar, total and utter fear.

****

Dean knew the moment baby pulled up outside of Bobby’s house; he knew with absolute certainty without even having to step through the door, and his stomach dropped as he followed the trail of blood across the kitchen tiles into the cluttered living room.

“Hello, Dean.”

The man who sat on the sofa was not his brother; it was another gut churning moment of clarity and he wondered if he had fallen into the depths of a nightmare. 

“Sam,” his throat was dry, and he looked beyond the dark figure, looked out of the grimy window to the pile of earth which was clearly and unmistakably a newly dug grave. “Where’s Bobby?”

“You know.” Sam sipped casually from the glass of whiskey in his hand. He wore a smart grey suit, with an open necked shirt. His hair was longer than Dean remembered it, but it hung clean and wavy across his broad shoulders. Hazel eyes that used to be so trusting, so kind, stared at him with a look of almost curious fascination and Sam cocked his head to one side and observed him as one might observe an unusual object or a piece of captivating weaponry. “He would have gotten in the way, Dean. The same way Rufus would have gotten in the way, or all of the other hunters who were on my back.”

Dean swallowed down bile and tightened his grasp on the knife in his pocket. He took a tentative step forward and was amazed at how even his voice sounded.

“Are you gonna kill me now, Sam?”

“Why would I do that?” Sam was still staring at him, and the smirk that was so out of place on his brother’s face colored his expression. “You’re my brother.”

“Bobby was like a father to you.” When this was over – one way or another – Dean would mourn, but for now he had to hold himself together. “But still you killed him.”

“It was a necessity,” Sam spoke as if he were discussing the weather, or some sort of business deal. “It was the logical thing to do.”

“And killing me isn’t? Because let me tell you – if you don’t kill me now, then you are gonna regret it.”

“You can’t kill me, Dean.” Sam rose to his feet and moved elegantly towards him. For a moment Dean recalled the Sam who had been high on demon blood, the Sam who’d used all of his power and strength to beat Dean down. He remembered what Chuck had said about Sam’s eyes being black, and he felt sick. “And I’m not going to kill you. What I want . . . what I need, is for you to join me. Join me, Dean and imagine just how powerful you will be. How powerful we will be.”

“I don’t have super special demon powers, Sam.” Dean kept moving slowly, measured. His chest hurt and his stomach roiled but he still moved. “So I can’t _join you_.”

“I can help you, Dean.” Sam was smiling wider now, his smirk replaced by a far more confident and smug expression. Dean knew what powers Sam had, and he knew that pulling demons was just a small part of it. The soldier, Jake, leapt to his mind and he remembered the way Jake had made Ellen put the gun to her own head with just a few words. Sam could no doubt do all of that now, and more. “I can give you some of my blood. I have so much demon blood in me now that I can spare enough. You can become like me, Dean. Imagine the Winchester’s together again. Just imagine what we can do.” Sam closed the gap between them. He reached out a big hand and cupped it around Dean’s face in a gesture that was far from brotherly. “I want you with me, Dean. I want you in all ways.” 

“Sam.” His brother’s fingers were firm and warm against his skin, and he could smell the scent of Sam’s cologne. He could feel his brother’s breath against his face. He closed his eyes for a moment and hoped, prayed, that the measures he had put into place for this had worked. The new tattoos burnt his skin, and the protection amulet jangled around his throat. “Please.”

“Tell me,” that voice, low, dark, enticing. “Tell me that you’ve never thought about us in that way. Tell me, Dean.”

Lips brushed his and it was like a dream and a nightmare both; he kept his mouth resolutely closed and his hand was wrapped so tight around the knife in his pocket that his fingers were cut and bleeding. Sam’s voice was whispering in his ear, telling him to let go of his weapon, urging him to drop his guard and let his brother in. Evil enveloped him, held him and all he could do was to pray harder and more fervently than he had ever done in his life.

A flash and the sound of wings. He heard rather than saw Sam fall back. He heard the hissing of his brother’s breath, the sudden curses falling from his lips. Good was indeed stronger than evil, and Castiel was holding his brother, arms tight around him, eyes burning white. Dean came back to himself and grabbed Sam’s arms, the iron chains he’d kept hidden in full view now as he wrapped them around Sam’s wrists and chest, ears closed to his brother’s screams of agony and the bubbling of his flesh.

****

Sam opened his eyes. He was in the center of a large circular room, which he immediately recognized as Bobby’s panic room. His chest was bare, and his wrists and ankles were tied. At first, as he struggled, he thought they were tied with ordinary rope, but then he realized that the rope was shot through with silver thread, and he wasn’t going anywhere fast. He was vaguely shocked to find that he wasn’t quite as human as he thought. By losing his soul and embracing his dark side he had opened his body up to his more _demonic_ leanings and now he was trapped by them.

Looking across the room he saw Dean leaning casually against one of the heavily protected walls. There were protection sigils of all kinds painted on every single surface, and it was clear that there would be no escape from this. His brother was staring at him with cold eyes and his face was impassive. Sam wondered what Dean might have thought about his confession of lust, about the kiss that he had hoped would become more, but he knew better than to ask. Flicking his eyes to the side he saw the angel, Castiel, standing stiff and tall as if he had a stick inserted into a personal area – something that Sam wished he could have done – and then with growing horror he realized that the angel had something clutched in his hands. A jar. A simple fucking jam jar, and inside of that was a flickering light, fading in and out and slamming pointlessly against the glass. Sam knew what it was and he felt bile in the back of his throat.

“I don’t want it,” his voice was strident, and he hoped that there was no trace of fear there. “I don’t want that thing back inside of me!”

“You don’t get a choice,” Dean’s tone was as expressionless as his face. “It’s the only way. It’s the only way to get my brother back.”

Sam saw Castiel lean into his brother and say something in a low tone; all the color leeched from Dean’s skin and he turned away for a moment, one hand resting against the jar Castiel held so carefully. Sam wished he knew what they were saying and he kept his chin up, his eyes fixed on them.

“My demons will come to my aid.” He wanted to instill fear into them both. “And my human servants too.”

“No one will find you here.” Dean didn’t even bother to look at him. “This place is warded, off the map. You have no control over anything here. While you might be King of Hell, here you are my little bitch.”

“I’m your brother.”

“No! No, you aren’t.” Dean’s fingers were still stroking the flickering jar. “My brother wouldn’t do this. HE resisted and look – look where it got him.” The last words were almost choked out, and Sam swore he saw tears.

“I could be,” he tried, his voice silky smooth. “Like I said to you earlier – think of what we could do together. Think of what we could be to each other.”

Dean’s face flamed and he slammed a fist against the wall angrily. He didn’t speak, he didn’t have too, and Sam felt his cold heart sink as he realized that he wasn’t going to win this one.

****

“Are you sure you want to do this, Dean?” Castiel shook his head as he held the jar up to his face and watched the light inside glimmering weakly. “Your brother’s soul has been in the pit for so long - who knows what damage has been done to it. Thrusting it back in again might kill him, or worse he will be nothing but a drooling mess . . . his mind too spoiled to process anything.”

“If he dies then at least his soul will go where it should,” Dean swallowed hard and tried not to look at the feeble life force that was his brother.

“I could take it to Heaven now,” Castiel’s voice was soothing, and persuasive. “He could have peace, Dean.”

“I have to try.” Dean knew he should let the angel do what he wanted, knew he should give his brother that chance, but he needed to have Sammy back with him. He needed him, so much. The soulless demon that sat before him – all black eyes and hard smirks – had spoken a truth Dean had tried to keep hidden for years, decade’s maybe. He loved his brother, and perhaps his love wasn’t as fraternal or as pure as it should have been. He had to take a chance . . . the chance that Sammy would be okay, and that they could be brother’s again and all of this would be a nightmare that they would both forget.

He nodded then and heard Castiel’s audible sigh; the angel took the jar and walked towards the Boy King of Hell ignoring his curses and pleas as Cas held it over Sam’s head. He said the incantation slowly and carefully, and then with utmost caution he removed the lid and the flickering thing broke free. It wavered for a moment and then it forced itself into Sam’s open mouth. Dean watched, resisting the urge to put his fingers over his ears as Sam screamed, and screamed, and then as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Sam’s chin hit his chest, and there was nothing but silence surrounding them.

****

Sam opened his eyes. His first thought was that he was cold. His whole body was shaking, and he felt goose bumps rise on his skin. He shouldn’t be surprised as the devil had told him that he burnt cold not hot, and he was in hell wasn’t he, so being cold was just one of many tortures afforded him. His second thought was that his wrists and ankles hurt him. He looked down and realized that they were tied, not with chains or barbed wire but simple thread with silver running through it. There was blood smeared on his flesh and his feet hurt as if he had been walking over fire. He dared to risk raising his head then and he looked across the room (it was just a room, an ordinary room that looked just like Bobby’s panic room) and saw his brother staring back at him.

Dean was milk white; his freckles stood out on his pallid skin and his eyes were almost laughingly wide. He looked like he might burst into tears at any minute, and Sam tried to open his mouth, to say something, but his throat hurt too much so he stayed silent. Castiel was next to his brother and the angel’s expression was unreadable. Blue eyes observed him like one might look at an insect under glass. It made Sam feel really uneasy, a spike of fear creeping up his spine and making the hairs on his neck rise.

He was half-naked and tied to a chair in the middle of Bobby’s panic room. He knew that now, knew with certainty that he wasn’t in Hell. He couldn’t stop staring at Dean – the last time he had seen his brother he had been beaten to a pulp, nose broken and swollen, and his eyes barely open. Now he looked pale but healthy – perfect in fact, and such a welcome sight that Sam felt his own eyes sting, salt tears trickling down his cheeks and wetting his dry mouth.

“Sammy?” There was a question in Dean’s voice, and he didn’t quite understand why. How had he gotten here? Why was he not in Hell? “Sammy.”

“Dean,” he sounded pathetically hoarse to his own ears and he couldn’t stop shaking. Castiel was moving towards him now with a purpose that he didn’t understand. The angel put a hand on his head and another on his stomach and he felt a stab of pain so intense that he cried out, and the angel nodded his head and moved his arm away. This time he was smiling – or as near to it as an angel came – and he gestured for Dean to move forward.

“Is he . . . ?” Dean began, and Cas nodded again. Sam watched as Dean dropped to his knees in front of the chair and wrapped his arms around Sam’s shaking legs. “Sammy. Christ, Sammy,” was all he said, and Sam’s tattered pants were soaking through with his brother’s tears.

****

They untied his wrists and ankles and lifted him slowly to his feet. He felt wobbly, as if he were new-born and he leaned against his brother for support. As he moved towards the door, he looked down at himself. His chest was bare, which no doubt was why he was so cold. His body looked fine, there were no wounds, and no marks of torture. Nothing. He tried to think about what had happened, but all he could recall was Dean’s battered face and falling. Beyond that, there was nothing.

Wrapped in a blanket he sat on Bobby’s lumpy couch and accepted the whiskey Dean handed him. Neither of them had spoken beyond murmuring each other’s names, and he felt oddly vulnerable. He wondered where Bobby was, and why the whole place seemed so cold. There was an ominous blood stain on the carpet, and an overwhelming scent of sulfur. Sam shuddered again and threw back the whiskey letting it burn his throat, and warm his gut. Dean smiled gently and poured him another liberal glass. Castiel seemed to have fluttered away somewhere, and the two of them were alone.

“What happened, Dean?” Even as he uttered the words, he wished they had never left his mouth. His brother went impossibly paler, and shook his head as if he didn’t want to talk. 

“Just relax a minute, Sammy. We just got you back. Please, please, don’t ask.”

Sam knew then, knew without question that something bad had happened. Something worse than Ruby and the demon blood, something worse than addiction and the panic room. He felt his body shaking harder and he leaned forward and grabbed his brother’s shoulders pulling him closer, eyes boring into his face.

“What happened, Dean?” He asked again and, in that one moment, his whole world fell apart.

****

He hadn’t thought it possible to feel so low, so utterly miserable that he couldn’t even cry. His throat hurt appallingly, and his eyes ached as if he hadn’t slept in months. He sat on the couch, hands lying limp between his knees, whole body trembling, and unable to stop the shaking.

“What I did, Dean?” It was more of a statement than a question. “How can anyone forgive me? How can I be forgiven? When I die, I’m going back to Hell.” He hung his head lower and felt Dean’s fingers in his hair. They were callused and raw and they snagged on the strands tugging from the root.

“It wasn’t you, Sammy.”

“But it was me, Dean. I killed those hunters. I killed Rufus, and I . . . ,” his throat closed then, and he lifted his head to stare bleakly at the mound of earth beyond the window. “You should kill me.”

“I just got you back, and I ain’t killing you Sam. You better get that idea out of your head, okay? It wasn’t you, it was just some soulless facsimile. You would never have done any of those things.”

“I don’t remember anything at all.” Sam wanted the ground to open up and swallow him again, he’d jumped into the pit to redeem himself. He’d let Lucifer out, and he’d put Lucifer back in again, but at what cost? What he’d done since his _return_ was far worse than anything the devil had done, and it hurt so much that he didn’t even know if he could face his brother let alone the world outside.

“That’s good that you don’t remember.” Dean sat beside him and put a gentle hand on his knee. “Sammy, I know it doesn’t look good right now but . . . .”

“Doesn’t look good! From what you said I led a fucking demon army, and I have friends in high places as well as in the lowest pits of Hell. What is gonna happen now, Dean? Do you honestly think they won’t find me?”

“It doesn’t matter if they find you or not, Sam. You aren’t that guy anymore.”

“So what do you suggest I do? Hunt? Fuck me! Dean I can’t. I won’t. I-I . . . what is there for me now?”

“I’m here, Sammy.” Dean looked as if his heart had broken in two, and Sam felt a stab of guilt. Emotions were flooding through him now, strong and thick like the demon blood in his veins. He bit his lip hard using the pain as a distraction and Dean reached over and embraced him, wrapping both arms around him and keeping him close. “We’ll lie low for a while, Sammy. We’ll stay off the radar. We could stay here perhaps. We have all the books and warding we need, and Bobby had enough protection spells to keep us safe.”

“No!” Sam shook his head and rose on wobbly legs. “I can’t. H-He’s out there, in the ground. I didn’t even give him a proper funeral . . . a hunter’s send off.”

“We can do that,” Dean spoke to him as if he were trying to calm a wild animal. He pulled Sam in again, and held him so close to his body that there was no escaping, “Rufus had a hunting cabin in Whitefish Montana, we’ll go there and stay for as long as it takes - forever if needs be.”

“And quit hunting?” 

“If that’s what it takes to keep you with me? Yeah, Sammy. Yeah, we’ll quit hunting.”

Sam stared out of the window at the makeshift grave; as hard as he tried, he couldn’t remember anything beyond leaping into the pit. He knew Dean would protect him, knew his brother would kill anyone or anything that dared to touch him. He couldn’t look beyond this point, he couldn’t even see into the future but he knew one thing - Dean wouldn’t let him go into the unknown alone, and he had to keep living for his brother, however painful.

**** 

The hunting cabin was large and rustic and comfortable enough. Dean had painted sigils and protection signs on every conceivable surface, and now he was planting herbs and plants that would have the same effect. It was mid-winter and cold; snow and ice were prevalent, and he’d chopped wood and built a massive fire. Inside you could almost say it was cozy, almost a scene from a Christmas card. There was a TV, an old radio, and plenty of rations in the freezer. The Impala was in the makeshift garage under a tarpaulin and he wasn’t intending to go anywhere soon. If demons were on their tail, they wouldn’t find them here and he didn’t fear the humans as much. Powerful rich men would soon find another ally, and whoever ruled Hell now could do as much for them as Sam clearly had. 

Sam clearly didn’t remember anything, Cas had assumed it was the shock of his soul returning to his body and Dean wasn’t looking any gift horses in the mouth. He kept Sam warm and fed and as sane as he could, but he could see it wasn’t enough and he feared, deep down, he was going to lose him.

There was one more thing he could try, and it was a huge risk but if it worked then it would be worth it. He’d thought a lot about what soulless Sam had said to him, and how he’d confessed to wanting Dean in ways that were far from brotherly. He’d concluded that he wanted Sam in the same way. Some might reflect that it was sinful and wrong, but they’d both done worse. What harm could it do? As far as he was concerned they weren’t returning to their old life. He didn’t want to hunt while Sam was in this condition. All he DID want right now was Sam. If he were honest to himself, he’d take Sam in any way he could get him.

It was late and the fire was still burning in the grate as the TV flickered faintly, and Sam was half-asleep on the couch. He tried not to sleep much these days because he feared the dreams that haunted him. He was never sure if they were actual things that happened, or just images of a life once lived. He felt a gentle touch on his knee, and looked down to see Dean on his knees before him. His brother was shirtless, his pale skin lit red by the dying embers. He smiled at Sam, genuine and warm and then, slowly, he leaned forward and pulled Sam’s sleep pants down to his knees.

“Dean?” He was aware that his voice was shaking, and his heart was pounding hard in his chest. As he stared down at his brother, he felt the beginnings of an erection, a burn of lust starting deep in his belly. He had never felt anything like this in his life before and he wanted to do something, say something but he was struck silent. His trembling hands grabbing his brother by the shoulders not knowing if he wanted to pull him in closer, or push him away.

“Shush, Sammy.” Dean bent his head and put his mouth on Sam’s cock. It was clumsy and he felt the sting of teeth, but it made no difference because he was suddenly so hard it almost hurt him. He gave a moan, pushing his knees further apart, stretching the material of his pants, and lifted his hips to give Dean better purchase, wanting like he’d never wanted anything before.

After that it was a pleasurable blur; Dean’s mouth and hands on him, Dean pulling him off the couch and onto the floor. His clothes were gone and so were Dean’s, and then they were naked together. His brother all around him, and then inside of him. It hurt, but it was a wonderfully healing pain. When Dean emptied inside of him the guilt, and hurt he’d felt for weeks ebbed away and he was complete again. His battered soul, and his sinful body, bonding beneath his brother’s competent touch.

****

Sam might not ever really forgive himself. Dean knew how his brother carried guilt around, and he couldn’t change that. However they were together now; hidden away far from their hunting life, from angels and demons and maybe even God himself. Perhaps one day they would be found, but Dean didn’t want to think about that. Perhaps one day Sam’s memories would return, but Dean didn’t want to think about that either. They’d spent their lives saving people, hunting things. They’d spent their lives doing the family business. They’d lost so much, and so many people, but they had found something far more precious – each other.

Sam, himself, took endless comfort from his brother. They shared everything from the car, the couch, the cooking and, more importantly, the bed. They were bound now by more than just blood. Sam didn’t want to think about what he had done. He didn’t want to be weighed down by blame, or suffer endless nightmares. If he could take anything positive from his life without a soul, it would be that he’d finally admitted to how he felt about Dean. He’d finally faced up to the fact he loved his brother. He truly loved him in all the ways one person could love another. 

Whatever came before, or whatever would come after, the brothers Winchester were ready. No one - no monster, no angel, or demon could alter that. They would stand or fall together, and ultimately that was all that mattered.

Fin


End file.
